


The Slippery Slope of Pain and Pleasure

by cristianoronaldo



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: AU, Christmas, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:25:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cristianoronaldo/pseuds/cristianoronaldo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fernando meets Sergio, but he's married, and neither of them know how to keep promises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Slippery Slope of Pain and Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not actually a fan of this pairing, but I love writing it. I haven't edited this yet, so let me know if you find typos and I'll go back and fix them. 
> 
> I made a mix for this fic. You can find it [here](http://8tracks.com/bellaaros/the-slippery-slope-of-pain-and-pleasure)

August 2006 

 

If he were to think of his life as a fairy tale, he would be missing the once upon a time and the happily ever after and even the middle bit with the hero. But if he had to, if he really had to, he would equate their first meeting to a “once upon a time.” 

 

It was an empty classroom after Sergio had dropped his niece off. Fernando was standing there, waving goodbye to his kids, and then he turned to Sergio and his eyes did this funny thing that made Sergio believe in love at first sight. Not for him, but for Fernando. Sergio didn’t doubt for a moment that he had correctly pinpointed the exact moment he began his destruction of another heart. 

 

“Dropping someone off?” Fernando asked politely. He pressed his lips together after the question like he wanted to take those words back or lock others inside. 

 

Sergio nodded, and there was something in his eyes that made Fernando want to back away. He stayed rooted to his spot. “My niece,” Sergio answered. “Sometimes I drop her off when her parents are busy with work.” 

 

“Oh. That’s nice. What do you do?” 

 

“Armani. I model.” He smiled like he didn’t quite take himself seriously, but Fernando nodded, and his eyes were big and wide, impressed, pleased and understanding. “And you?” 

 

“I’m a writer. Big on poetry.” 

 

“Published anything I may have heard of?” 

 

“Perhaps.” He didn’t struggle to name anything or be heard. He shoved his hands in his pockets again, shrugged his shoulders up to his neck and smiled. He changed the subject quickly. “So your niece, what grade did you say she was in?” 

 

“I didn’t. But fourth.” 

 

“Fourth? Leo’s right around there. You said your name was--?” 

 

“I didn’t. But Sergio.” 

 

Fernando pointed to himself. He seemed to be at a loss for words, mesmerized by the way Sergio said his name. “Fernando,” he said finally, like he’d struggled to come up with it. “Torres. Fernando Torres.” Stringing his name together the second time was less difficult. 

 

+ 

 

They got to know each other in the simplest of ways, beautiful because the simplest actions carried over to another level entirely. When Fernando brushed his hair away from his face, or offered the last bit of chocolate to Sergio, it wasn’t merely a shake of the head or a hand extended in generosity. 

 

It was the development of an incurable madness, an inexplicable feeling that festered between them. So, how, Fernando wondered, could something so beautiful also be so destructive, so poisonous, and so ugly. How could his own desire, his own desire to be desired, be so repulsive and so captivating. 

 

He was never one to be stolen by sadness. A tear was just a tear. He didn’t romanticize his own sadness, and he didn’t fall in love with feeling lost. But when he saw Sergio-- after that, even the curve of his lips when he smiled was another reason to love that stretching, bending pain that meant broken trust, whispered words at inappropriate times, kisses without ever touching. 

 

When it rained, he no longer thought of the same things. He didn’t think about mowing the lawn or whether his wife brought her umbrella to work. He didn’t bother running out the door to hand her the scarf she’d left behind. 

 

When it rained, he thought of Sergio and whether he was stepping in puddles or not. He thought about smoking, and he wondered if people smoked in the rain or if the drops of water made smoking impossible. He called Sergio to ask, but then he thought it was a stupid question, so he hung up before Sergio could answer. 

 

When it was summer and there were fireworks and Sergio invited him and his family to watch the lights, he guiltily lit the sparklers with his children, watched as Sergio held his daughter. He wished, and he hated. 

 

+ 

 

Their affair officially began in the sumer though Fernando felt like he’d been in chains for much longer. He wrote something about rain, and sent off his next book. It was rejected for being “morally ambiguous” though she did note that it was “sinfully entertaining.” 

 

“Well,” Fernando wrote back, “I am morally ambiguous, and I am sinfully entertained.” He attached the same copy, and sent it off once more, including a letter: “People are supposed to write the truth. They don’t, but I do. I can’t rely on literature for the truth anymore, but I can rely on myself,” he wrote, and, miraculously, it was accepted. 

 

He told this to Sergio when his kids and Sergio’s niece were having a playdate. They were playing on the patio in the dark with Olalla. He hadn’t told her about the book yet; he wanted Sergio to be the first to know, and sure enough, the minute the words were out of his mouth, Sergio wrapped him in a hug, pounded him on the back, started chattering away at the speed of light about how brilliant Fernando was, and how if anyone in the world deserved to be happy, it was him. 

 

There was nothing wrong with what he said, and he’d stepped away after the hug so his back was against the counter. He wasn’t too close, there wasn’t a kiss, but there was a spark in his eyes, and Fernando trembled. 

 

“You know I’m married,” he said softly. 

 

He didn’t know why he said it, really, because Sergio hadn’t done a thing. It was like if he had dropped his money in a store and someone bent down to pick it up, and he took them aside to break it to them gently that he was married. Absolutely unwarranted, it made no sense, and Fernando was just opening his mouth to apologize profusely when Sergio cut in. 

 

“I know,” he said, and his voice was like music, “Availability, or a lack thereof, doesn’t change the way I feel.” 

 

“And how do you feel?” 

 

Sergio took a step forward, hesitated just a moment before opening his mouth, but just then, Olalla walked in with the kids. Her face was glowing, and Fernando thought that maybe if things were different, he would remember his reasons for loving her. He knew there was something, but it was fading from his arsenal of available emotions, taking even the memory of any fondness along with it. 

 

“We should get going,” Sergio said quickly, holding his hand out for Daniela to take. 

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” Olalla asked, sweetly patting Daniela’s hand. “The kids were having so much fun outside, and I’d hate to cut their time short, but if you have somewhere to be--” 

 

“No,” Sergio replied, and Daniela screamed happily. The kids scampered off, Leo running behind the two others with a pillow, threatening to take over the world with his soft scientific weapon. 

 

“Thank you,” he said, smiling, once the noise had subsided and the kids were in the other room. “Really. I appreciate it. I was just going to have frozen pizza again for dinner, so this is a welcome change.” 

 

“You’re welcome anytime,” Fernando said, finally finding his tongue. His hands were still shaking from the almost-confession. “You don’t even have to call.” 

 

Sergio laughed, and glanced at Olalla. “I’m sure your better half would prefer if I called, Fernando, but thank you. Really. The two of you are generous beyond belief.” 

 

“Only when it comes to you, Fernando,” Olalla said, and she walked off in search of the kids, patting her husband on the arm on her way. 

 

“Yeah,” Fernando said once she’d left. “Yeah. Only when it comes to you.” 

 

And that night, when the kids were saying goodbye outside, Fernando offered to lend Sergio a book. It was just the two of them in his office, and so many things remained unspoken. Fernando shut the door behind them, closed the blinds, flicked on the light. He kept himself busy tidying the place up until Sergio coughed politely. 

 

“Come on, it’s just me. Don’t look like that.” 

 

“Don’t look like what?” 

 

“Like you’re worried. Like we’ve changed. Nothing is different.” 

 

“Sergio,” Fernando breathed. He ran his hand through his hair. “A little over an hour ago, we were having a conversation that sounded very much like--” He struggled with the rest. “Maybe I misunderstood,” he finished. 

 

“You understood perfectly,” Sergio answered. And then Olalla was calling from the other room that it was way past the kids’ bedtime and they were welcome to stay the night, but she didn’t want Daniela’s parents to be upset. 

 

“Fernando,” she called when he didn’t answer. “Are you two still in that office of yours?” 

 

“Write something for me,” Sergio said with a grin, and he left. 

 

+ 

 

A letter, unsigned: 

 

I hope you understand that guilt will eat away at you, and tears will pepper the backs of your eyes, and your hands will shake when you think about what we’re doing. Don’t ask me to write about you. I only write the truth, and the truth is that I need you like the sun needs to part from the moon. Eternities will pass, and this will still be a terrible mistake. There is no justification and no goodness. No medication can soften the pain of being solely responsible for a broken heart. 

 

+ 

 

When they saw each other next, it was like Sergio had read nothing. It was like he couldn’t feel anything but his overwhelming, enthusiastic desire for his friend. 

 

“Remember what we were talking about?” he asked, and he smiled so hard he had to stare down at his hands. 

 

“Yes,” Fernando replied, tight-lipped. 

 

“You still feel it?” 

 

“Do I still feel what? Because there are a lot of things I feel right now, not all of them good things.” 

 

They kissed sometime after that, after Sergio shook his head, invalidating and intensifying Fernando’s every fear. 

 

“It’s going to be okay,” he said. 

 

And Fernando nodded because he knew it wasn’t, but it was better to pretend. He knew once he tasted the kiss, it was all over; his marriage, his quiet life, his normalcy... all of it, over. Gone because of two bits of flesh colliding. 

 

+ 

 

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Sergio lately.” Olalla was lying on her back, reading from a paperback novel. Her hair was still wet from a shower, and she smelled like peaches. Fernando, again, was struck with a sudden nostalgia for the enormity of emotion he once felt for her. 

 

“Yeah,” Fernando said, shifting. He set his phone on the nightstand because a text from Sergio was sure to come back to him at any given moment. As an afterthought, he reached over and flipped the phone so the screen was facedown. “He’s a good friend. I don’t have many friends besides the parents of the kids’ friends. It’s nice to have him around.” 

 

“It is.” She pursed her lips. “Don’t take this the wrong way...” She hesitated. She didn’t show she hesitated-- she never did-- but her brief pause to draw a breath didn’t fool Fernando. “I love Sergio. I love having him around, and Daniela is welcome anytime, but--” She finally set the book down, stopped pretending to multitask. “We never do anything as a family anymore. I swear, it’s like the two of you are married and I’m the friend that comes over to visit sometimes.” 

 

Fernando laughed colorlessly. “That’s not the way it is at all.” 

 

“That might not be the way it is. But that’s how I feel.” 

 

He glanced over at his phone, then back at his wife. She was beautiful, and if he weren’t so passionately obsessed with Sergio, he would have let his gaze linger on her legs or the way her hair fell over her shoulders, just concealing everything he should have wanted to kiss and ravish. 

 

“I’m not sure what you want me to do about that,” he said finally, deciding that was a good enough answer. 

 

She stared at him for a moment, bit her lip, and then turned around, flicking off the light decisively. She burrowed under the covers in the dark, but her back didn’t shake and she didn’t shed a tear. 

 

“Guess we’re going to bed,” Fernando mumbled, blinking his eyes to adjust to the darkened room. 

 

“If you want the light on, go to fucking Sergio,” she snapped, and Fernando quieted. 

 

+ 

 

They went fishing, which meant Sergio took Fernando to his beach house, and they brought the fishing supplies along for show. They stayed in mostly, fucking and cooking and getting lost in the sheets. It was carefree and guiltless until Sergio asked Fernando to stay an extra day. Fernando nodded, said, _yes, of course_ , and then all his responsibilities fell back on his shoulders with a decisive thump, and he had to sit down. 

 

“Do you regret it ever?” 

 

“What, starting this with you?” There was a faltering happiness in Sergio’s eyes, his lips tilted upward, a beautiful hesitation that Fernando had only ever associated with himself. 

 

Fernando nodded, keeping his eyes trained on Sergio. The window was open behind them, the white drapes blowing in the breeze, the ocean beyond the rectangle absence of glass. It was gray that day, just like the sky and the clouds and the sand that covered every inch of the ground they walked on. 

 

“Yes,” Sergio said finally, and something in Fernando’s chest dropped. It felt like he’d been cut open. Because _he_ , Fernando, was allowed to regret it. _He_ was the one betraying the one person he had always sworn to keep safe. Sergio wasn’t allowed to regret it. Sergio was supposed to make him feel better about his mistakes. He wasn’t supposed to validate Fernando’s fears. 

 

“Yes?” Fernando echoed, staring up at the other man, feeling as hollow as his voice sounded. “You regret it all?”  

 

“Only that I hurt you. That I hurt your wife. That I hurt your family. I don’t regret loving you.” 

 

“But loving is hurting,” Fernando replied simply. “If you regret hurting me, you regret loving me.” 

 

“No,” Sergio said sadly, like looking at Fernando made him hurt in places he didn’t know existed. “Loving isn’t hurting, Fernando. I think we’ve just been doing it wrong.” 

 

They decided that night to drive home and tell Olalla, but when they got there, she was sleeping. Fernando offered to tell her alone, Sergio agreed, and they parted ways, sharing a brief kiss on the dark porch just before dawn. They made plans for the weekend. 

 

+ 

 

Her eyes filled with tears, her face had paled, and there were two dark red blotches, one on either cheek. Her hands were balled into fists, and she ordered the kids to go play outside, screaming at them furiously when they refused. They were just wondering why daddy was talking about Sergio and why mommy was crying. 

 

Admittedly, blurting it out at the dinner table was not the best idea, but Fernando was nervous and bursting with a lie he’d felt guilty for having for months. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, not knowing where that left them. And then, much quieter and much more genuine, “I didn’t ask for this.” 

 

“Fernando,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion, “ _I_ didn’t ask for this either.” 

 

It was quiet for a long time, and she was crying silently. The weight of being solely responsible for the breaking of another heart came crashing down on his shoulders, and he had to look away. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” he said again, “I’ve been suffocating this whole time. With guilt. It’s been killing me.” 

 

“Good,” she said viciously, and she swiped her hand at the table. A plate came crashing down, breaking at her feet. The kids pressed their faces against the glass door, but Olalla waved them off furiously. “I hope it kills you for the rest of your life.” 

 

+ 

 

“This one isn’t really about love,” Fernando told his editor., handing over his last manuscript. “Or not what love should be about anyway. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just doing it wrong.” 

 

“That’s why you’re good at what you do. You understand what love _isn’t_ , and you recognize that this thing, this false thing-- this pretender-- spreads like an epidemic, while love is killed on the spot.” 

 

“You should write my next book for me,” he said, and he was serious. “I don’t feel like doing it anymore. I don’t feel like telling the truth because the truth is that my marriage is destroyed. It’s been three months and I don’t even talk to the person I destroyed it for. “ There was a long pause. He swallowed. “We made plans for the weekend and he never showed.” 

 

“Fernando,” she started, and he could see in her eyes that she was about to go off on him about how she wasn’t his therapist, but he held up his hand pleadingly. 

 

“We made plans for the weekend,” he said softly. Her expression lost its edge. “I don’t feel like writing anymore.” 

 

+ 

 

A letter, unsigned, handed to Daniela’s mother with a desperate plea to get it, somehow, to Sergio: 

 

Sergio, 

 

I don’t need a long explanation about why you don’t care anymore or why our love ceased to enchant you. I only need to know why you left. I told my wife about us. We’re finalizing our divorce now, and I might not see my kids for a long, long time. I didn’t think about what I was giving up. 

 

I was so in love with you. I _am_ so in love with you. It sickens me that I would do it all over again, and I hate the person I have become. 

 

I just need to know why we made plans and you didn’t show, and why when I went to your apartment, it was empty with no note. And why Daniela was crying in school because her uncle never said goodbye, but he was gone and she didn’t think he would ever be back. 

 

+ 

 

A response, unsigned, scrawled in messy handwriting and sent to Fernando’s apartment with no return address: 

 

Fernando, 

 

I just felt chains starting to form. 

 

+ 

 

Reply, coffee spill concealing the name of the sender: 

 

Well I hope you’re free now. 

 

+ 

 

December 2013 

 

Fernando was buying a scarf for Olalla because they were on speaking terms, and they decided to have Christmas all together so he could see the kids. They hated him, but they hid it well, and he didn’t mind so much as long as he could make them smile every once in awhile. 

 

He couldn’t remember if she liked green or blue better, so he bought them both. A purse for his daughter, one she’d taken a picture of and texted to him (the only text she had ever sent him in her life besides “I’m here. Come pick me up.”). It was beautiful and expensive, and it cost him nearly everything he’d saved up for Christmas. He was going to have to start dipping into emergency money soon. 

 

His new job didn’t pay well, and his ex-editor sent him emails twice a year, just asking if he was willing to pick it back up again. He said he wasn’t. He said he never would, but she said writers never really left it. She said it was part of their soul, and he said, half-jokingly, that he didn’t have one. 

 

His son wanted a video game, but Fernando had already taken care of that months in advance. Leo was better about hiding his hatred than his sister. Sometimes he said “I love you” and pretended to mean it. 

 

He was in line waiting to buy the purse and the two scarves when he felt someone staring at him. He paused, turned, and felt something that was once wounded break again. He swallowed past a lump in his throat, and breathed Sergio’s name like he was swallowing a sword. 

 

Sergio looked up, and set down the watch he was holding, waved off the cashier when she asked how he’d like to pay. “No,” he said instead. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want it after all.” 

 

Sergio tried to brush by him, but Fernando stuck out his arm. He stepped out of line, noted the panic and worry in Sergio’s features, and led him back to the racks of clothing which concealed them. His arm was still on Sergio’s shoulder, and he dropped it and felt the lump in his throat return. This time it was more difficult to swallow past. 

 

“Portland,” he said finally, and Fernando gave him an odd look. “Portland,” Sergio repeated. “It’s where I went. I got a smaller job there. I needed a smaller job. I needed something meaningless.” 

 

“You already had something meaningless,” Fernando snapped. “You had me, remember?” 

 

A spark of deafening emotion returned to Sergio’s eyes, and he touched Fernando’s wrist gently. “You were never meaningless. But you were giving up your family for me. After only a few months of knowing each other, we were going to give up everything, and we didn’t even have any plans for afterwards. It was eating me alive.” 

 

“And what, I didn’t deserve a goodbye?” 

 

Sergio opened his mouth, looked like he was about to say something, but promptly snapped it shut. “Goodbye,” he said, and turned on his heel to leave. 

 

+ 

 

A letter, nearly frozen, left on a doorstep: 

 

Fernando, 

 

It was killing me to be with you, and it’s breaking me to be without you. I can’t decide which I prefer. 

Merry Christmas. 

 

+ 

 

The contents of Fernando’s trashcan, Christmas Day: 

Two cans of beer, three shopping lists, one piece of wrapping paper, ripped tissue paper, five broken ornaments, one dead pen, leftover takeout,  and a half-frozen, unsigned letter. 

+ 

 

He opened a new document on Christmas Day. _If he were to think of his life as a fairy tale,_ he began. 


End file.
